…literary tomfoolery and other nonsensical musings…

Category Archives: Tantrums

An instigator decided he didn’t like Fearless Girl disrupting the integrity of Charging Bull. In response, he slapped together an intentionally poorly designed dog to urinate on her leg, installing her last night.

Alex Gardega insists he’s a feminist. He says he’s simply incensed by the marketing ploy by State Street and feels Fearless Girl doesn’t belong. Ergo, he’s protesting. Protesting by having a dog urinate on a child’s leg. A female child, at that.

Let’s say Gardega is genuinely enraged by the disruption of Charging Bull. Is it remotely appropriate to have a dog urinate on the leg of a child, even in statue form?

Additionally, even if Gardega is a “feminist” (which I doubt) how is it not blisteringly obvious that misogyny isn’t alive and well in 2017? That someone would think it’s wholly appropriate to urinate on a woman, without consent. To shame a woman in public. To degrade a woman “in the name of art.” We are not your tools, men.

On Twitter, someone suggested placing Fearless Girl elsewhere. And, you know what? I agree. She needs to be moved. She needs to face the White House until our society recognizes and accepts that a woman can effectively govern this country.

Lastly, sponsored/commissioned art has been going on for centuries. Stop making State Street the problem in this scenario. The statue is brilliant. It stands on its own and conveys a message. Making it about its sponsor dilutes the message. That said, I’m thinking a dilution of the message might be the intended consequence given how intimidated many are by women in positions of power, especially women of color.

The more vehement the protest about Fearless Girl, the more obvious one’s feeling threatened becomes. It says everything about the protester and our society, in general. We live in an age when a bronze female form is a threat. Think about that.

Why can’t people extend logic just a smidge? An iota? A scintilla? If you have the creative capacity to dream up scenarios to defend your shitty, weak hypotheses, what is the harm in thinking an additional minute or two to ensure your idea isn’t completely off-base or entirely wrong? Wouldn’t it make it easier to sell? Wouldn’t it make it believable? Because, when you don’t take that extra five minutes or so, you’re left with being challenged by some nitwit, healthcare consultant in the South who doesn’t care much for people and certainly isn’t agreeable when she identifies significant gaps which she, in her distorted sense of ethics, deems immoral.

Alas, no. Logic is not a consideration in Conservative decision making. Neither is decency. Nor humanity. If it was, these assholes wouldn’t be hijacking government via “special sessions” (imma lookin atchu, NC General Assembly) and the Senate wouldn’t be voting to repeal the Affordable Care Act when they should otherwise be in bed, fucking their rent-boys.

A few things to note:

The costliest demographic to providers and insurers in healthcare is the chronically ill, age regardless.

The general public will never escape the burden of funding care for those who cannot pay the bill.

In a society that relies on employer subsidized healthcare as the model, eliminating the consumer’s protection with respect to preexisting conditions is reckless, irresponsible and immoral. There is absolutely no guarantee any person can maintain constant employment. Costs for non-subsidized health insurance are unrealistic for middle and lower class citizens without opting for a deductible that is unreasonable.

With Ryan’s plan, the state and federal governments are still involved. The insurance providers are still involved. They’re still subsidizing the cost. Your tax dollars are still paying for this albeit less efficiently because you have diluted the market, as a whole. Your insurance premiums will still be offsetting the cost for the providers.

“For sick patients who cannot continue coverage, Ryan’s plan calls for a return to state-run high-risk pools. These pools allow sick people to buy insurance separately, while states, insurers and the federal government help subsidize the cost. The president-elect’s website says he supports risk pools.

Risk pools have a long and controversial past. Before the ACA was passed, 35 states ran risk pools for people with preexisting conditions ranging from cancer and diabetes to more minor afflictions such as arthritis or eczema. Premiums for risk pool coverage were as much as 250 percent more than a healthy person would pay for individual insurance, and some states, overwhelmed with sick patients, had wait lists for coverage or imposed other restrictions, said Fish-Parcham.”

Additionally, as we see in other business models, when there is shrinkage or loss, the cost of business is passed along to the consumer. Do you honestly believe providers (practices or hospitals) are not going to inflate their charges to the consumer to make up for the bad debt of others? Do you think you’re not going to be stuck assuming that burden? YOU WILL BE.

“The president-elect added: ‘The Theater must always be a safe and special place. The cast of Hamilton was very rude last night to a very good man, Mike Pence. Apologize'”

Wait a minute. I thought there were no safe spaces. I thought we were supposed to accept and embrace reality.

There is absolutely nothing more insufferable than blazing hypocrisy.

For eight years, people have stomached vile rhetoric, listening to wretched commentary about the President and the First Lady. For hundreds of years, people have endured intense and indescribable pain which has been flippantly dismissed and/or excused.

Now, now we’re supposed to create safe spaces? After we have been told there are none, to get over it? Does anyone even listen to themselves?

Earlier today, I was listening to Spinning by GROUPLOVE. Why does that matter, you ask? Because it’s fucking music and fucking music dictates my existence, that’s why. And, since not even Dock is immune to a power pop song, I thought I would play Spinning for him on the way to McTeacher night at Mac-Don-Ald-Ssss because we had to dump some money into this valiant fundraising effort while slowly killing ourselves via chicken fusion, “beef” and filet-o-fisk (the word fish in Swedish is fisk).

Around minute who-gives-a-fuck Dock says “Oh! The Millennial Whoop. Gotta have the Millennial Whoop. Can’t have a song these days without the Millennial Whoop.” I What-You-Tawkin-About-Willis him and wait for his knowledge drop. Whether I like it or not, Dock is way more au courant than I in the music scene. “The Millennial Whoop. You know, where all the Millennial bands full of 90 members sing songs that have to include at least one ‘Wo-Oh,’ typically two.” I’m all what-the-fuckity-fuck-are-you-on-now? Dock patiently repeats himself and then launches into a diatribe about the Millennial bands with their eleventy billion members, their lutes, their mandolins and their ukuleles.

“Millennials have to be special, creative and different so they decided to add in a ‘Wo-Oh’ so their friend who can’t carry a tune gets a star for participation. As for the ukuleles, well, there as many of those as there are strings on the instrument. Each ukulele has one string and it’s played by a single person, reflecting the individuality and specialism of the player and the instrument because, in keeping with the spirit of Millennials, special things require special dedication. A ukulele will not be sullied by a player playing all four strings at one time. Oh fuck no. A ukulele and its string gets the respect it deserves: one instrument, one string and one player. Just like the singer who can’t sing but doesn’t like feeling left out: that person gets the ‘Millennial Whoop’ credit on the liner notes.”

You can see where we’re going.

Ever the reluctant optimist (Me. No, really.) says “You know, I have been observing a weird trend. It seems like the entire world has had enough of the Millennials’ handcrafted, *artisanal bullshit. Even social anthropologists are like ‘Ugh. I can’t eeeeven any longer with you snowflakes. Lemme go find a hairblower to melt your sorry asses.'” Dock, being the curmudgeonly skeptic that he is offered a plate of doubt but I persisted. I even said “Remember all those years I said, ‘let the Millennials try to change the workforce?’ No longer. Fuck ’em. Let them get lost on the way back from yoga or the food co-op and miss a meeting. I’m busy raising a seven year-old and nagging you to take out the garbage. I can’t be arsed to remind them to do their jobs or show up for a meeting.”

We came to the conclusion that, like everything else, the Millennials kind of suck. But, we’re Gen-X so we really don’t want to invest the energy into actively disapproving of them, let alone disliking them.

Then, we decided to do a comparative analysis about shopping for a vehicle: Gen-X vs Millennials, reality vs life through rose colored glasses.

Car salesweasel: Hi there! I bet you’re looking for a car! What can I help you drive off the lot today?

Gen-Xer: A car? Is that what you’re selling? I was hoping for a kidney or one crack, please. Also, can you confirm the rumor that Mudhoney is playing a rent party in the backroom?

Millennial: Oh wow! Hi! Thank you for being so helpful! Why yes, I am looking for a car! Can we be friends? What’s your user name on Tumblr, Instagram, Snapchat, Kik and Waterbuffalo? Are you on Yelp so I can review you? What about FourSquare? Will you give me positive feedback as a super-extra-awesome customer when the transaction has concluded? Also, I’d really like a t-shirt but please make it one that looks like it’s from the 90s. I’m totally dedicated to retro. Can’t you tell I’m going for the Cobain-meets-man-bun look?

Car salesweasel: So, whatcha looking for?

Gen-Xer: Something that goes backwards and forwards. Relatively reasonable fuel economy. Carplay or other stupid interfacing whatever. Turn signals would be nice. One of those rearview cameras, too. Just so long as it doesn’t jack up the price because I’m not paying list. You hear? I am not paying list. If you have it in black with tan interior, we have a deal. You dig?

Millennial: Ok! So, this is what I’m thinking about! I have a few pictures if you want to see what I have downloaded! I have added some stickers and emojis to convey my feelings because I’m not really great with the words! I’d like a car that is environmentally friendly because we don’t care enough about the environment these days and I’m super-extra-passionate about the environment and none of the candidates even addressed that in the debates! None! Can you believe that!?! Well, Bernie did, at least!

Next, I need really gentle tires for the blacktop! I hate hurting things, physically and/or emotionally! I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing I caused any form of pain! Also, I left my favorite fluffy at my parents’ house when I was there doing laundry and they told me I wasn’t allowed to come back for two weeks so sleeping has been really. really, really hard. :cry cry cry:

Super critical!!111! Do you offer carbon offset credits? Because, again with the environment!!! I cannot buy the Grand Wagoneer without the credits! I just can’t! And I really can’t see myself and my 20 dogs in a Fiat! There’s just not enough room for that!!! We can’t have the dogs cramped on the long trips to the mountains for the weddings I have to go to! Also, I haul *a lot* of mason jars and pickled vegetables for my side business. Are you interested in purchasing pickled gourds for your Thanksgiving dinner? I handcrafted them myself with help from my friends who make their own diaper cream. :sticks screen in salesweasel’s face: LOOK AT MY WEBSITE!!! Helvetica is the best!!! I masturbate to style guides. Oh. That was TMI, wasn’t it?

Car salesweasel: Are you financing the purchase or…?

Gen-Xer: What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m financing this like I financed the toilet paper I had to buy yesterday.

Millennial: So, here’s my concept of how we should be paying for things! Money is corrosive to the soul and thus corrosive to society! In order to build a more perfect world, I suggest we trade! You will give me the car and I will give you two hours of manual labor at your home! I can empty the dishwasher, take out the trash or clean the litterbox! Wait! You look disappointed. Fine. I’ll throw in a case of my special, birch scented homemade beard wax if you promise to give me a year’s worth of oil changes, too! What do you say? Do we have a deal? OMG OMG OMG! If we do, I will totally meet you at the park for a game of kickball! You’ll love my friends! They make the best moonshine you have ever tasted in your life! Right in the bathtub! I’m telling you. The things one can do with what one already has. If people just stopped, slowed down and appreciated what was around them and the unique gifts life has to offer…

Then we started making fun of the Millennials’ farm-to-table lettuce sammiches on stone ground wheat bread. Little did they know the lettuce was sourced from Compare Foods on Avondale Drive in Durham and the bread was stolen off a delivery truck parked by the Sheetz on Miami Blvd.

Being Gen-X is whatever. We knew from a young age no one gave a shit about us or anything other than themselves. This was impressed upon us every time we came home from school to an empty house with only the television to keep us company. We’re not necessarily the bastards of the young but we are the bastards of the Boomers. There’s a lot to be said for being the progeny of the narcissistic.

While other generations have said our attitude sucks and we’re slackers, thinking that was going to incite some form of change or emotional growth and development, we stayed true to our ambivalent selves and did nothing. We don’t fucking care about what people think. Never have. Never will. We remain the generation just trying to make it across the hellscape. We’re the generation that took existentialism and nihilism and made it something for the masses as opposed to the intellectually sanctimonious and elite by merely breathing and rolling our eyes while smoking a blunt and drinking PBR from a CAN.

And, as we sit on the cusp of this nation’s destruction, some of us are concerned but we’re also not. Gen-X continues to see your bullshit. Be it the selfishness and narcissism of the Boomers or the complete inability to accept that humans are ordinary from the Millennials. Whatever comes to pass, as the circus continues around us, Gen-X, sandwiched by The Bearded generations (patchouli Deadheads who refuse to let go of the past and hipsters who really have no fucking idea what irony is), will remain spectators, quietly singing along to the Millennial Whoop in our financed vehicles while consuming processed food, drinking overpriced coffee, comforted by the knowledge that we don’t look through rose colored glasses. We’re not snowflakes. We’re not special. We’re not seeking “experiences.” We just don’t want to be assholes – bearded or clean shaven.

Oh well, whatever, nevermind.

*Look at this. Even spellcheck won’t acknowledge the existence of artisanal. That’s how fucking lame this word and this concept is. To prove my point further: the word includes the word ANAL as the suffix.

We interrupt the current rational posts with one from the perspective of a person who has been dealing with a wee bit of PTSD over the past three or four weeks. A person who does not care to have her cheese moved before 08.00 in the morning. A person who wants to listen to her music when she wants to listen to it and will not be denied.

This morning, I needed (yes, needed) to listen to the Purple Rain soundtrack – the songs Computer Blue and Baby I’m a Star, to be precise. Yet, being the addle-minded, drooling idiot I have become lately, I stupidly updated my music player the other day without much thought. I put on my DJ P0n-3 headphones, pulled up the horrifying menu and started hyperventilating. Where is my fucking Prince??? No, not that one. We all know that notion is a giant, fucking joke. I mean PRINCE. The Purple One.

Fuck me.

So, after one panic attack averted, I finally locate the album and the required songs only to be rewarded with Computer Blue on infinite loop.

Look, Apple, I get it. You’re trying to play catch up. You’re slightly out-moded in this particular arena. That’s fine. Progress is pain. No, seriously, I get it. I’m in the middle of a corporate re-org. I KNOW PAIN. Change is a significant emotional event for all of us. That said, why must you monkey with my little island of sanity? Why tamper with what is of paramount importance to me? When this bitch needs to listen to Nine Inch Nails to scare teachers, she needs to listen to Nine Inch Nails. When she needs to listen to Prince to get revved up for her five mile walk, she needs her Prince. When you deny her this – tantrums will be thrown. And, as I mentioned earlier, in the throes of PTSD flashbacks, denial and upset is not something graciously accepted.

Work in progress. I has one. In fact, I was thinking of wrapping it up today but the Go Fuck Yourself Weekly post is so fucking fantastic that I didn’t want to bury it under the weight of The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås. Then Blitz decided to bury it with a poem about that motherfucking dress. The cunting dress. The dress that has enraged me so much that I’m now suffering from bloody Tourette Syndrome and am one step away from involuntary commitment to a psych ward.

Dress, I fucking hate you. There is only one blue dress that matters and that’s the one with Bill Clinton’s DNA on it. There’s only one white dress that matters but the fuck if I know what it is because I DON’T FUCKING CARE.

1. It is fucking hideous.
2. It is made of substandard fabric.
3. It doesn’t deserve to see the light of day.
4. Not even the most desperate of drag queens would touch it.
5. You’re going to see it on Halloween (Someone who is trying too hard to be funny will wear it).

Behold…the end of the calendar and fiscal year. All reports (time and expense) must be filed by close of business today to make the finance trolls less stabby. Surely you did not expect things to function properly? Why would the most erratic VPN on Earth be anything but? And why, why would you operate under the silly assumption that your piece of shit Lenovo StinkPad not crash 40 times whilst reworking a file the size of…I dunno…something really large? At this point, I’m really at a loss for words. And hope. That’s lost, as well. And sanity. Let’s review what is lost: hope, words, sanity. Yup.

Please, please keep crashing, StinkPad. Please inhibit any progress I may attempt to make today. Please make doing rework more exhilarating. I would love nothing more than to be sitting in the exact same position, performing the exact same exercise in futility at 10 pm. Really. I would. Don’t believe otherwise for this is the stuff I live for. This is the stuff of dreams.

Okidoki. It’s Monday morning. It’s raining. Apparently, I’m the only douchewad who is working today. And, the fucking goat did not burn. Why not run over one of my cats (hipster crazy cat lady) and make this day a complete exercise in suckitude?

For those unaware, I have a marginally unhealthy obsession with the julbock in the town square of Gävle, Sweden. A julbock (Yule goat) is a symbol of Christmas in Scandinavia. Present day, it is a Christmas ornament made of straw and bound with red ribbon. One could hang small versions on a tree, place larger ones around the base of the tree (we put ours on the mantel because…cats) and insanely large ones are erected in town squares. Here is a picture of Gävlebocken in its unnatural state – intact.

Why so obsessed with a straw goat, you ask? Well, it’s not because it’s huge and weird. It’s because since its inception, people have tried to destroy it. This is some insight into Swedish humor (and the Danes say they have none). A brief (and most notable) history of the destruction for your edification:

1966: First goat – set on fire.
1968: Rumor of a randy couple engaging in naughty behavior one evening.
1969: Set on fire.
1970: Set on fire a mere six hours after being assembled.
1972: Collapsed due to sabotage.
1976: Hit by car.
1978: Kicked to pieces.
1980: Burned on Christmas Eve (See, even Santa wants in on the fun).
1983: Legs destroyed.
1987: Goat was fireproofed. Burned down week before Christmas (Nelson Muntz ha-ha).
1988: Nothing happened. Hmmm…I was in Sweden in 1988, although not at that particular time. Maybe.
1992: Burned after eight days (a Chanukkah miracle).
1995: Norwegian arrested for attempting to burn it (See how well Norwegians and Swedes play together? Swedes assign blame to Norway). Actually incinerated on Christmas Day (Again, go Santa).
1997: Damaged by fireworks.
1998: Burned in a major blizzard (I admire the dedication to the cause).
2001: Goat set on fire by American tourist who was jailed for 18 days, convicted and ordered to pay 100,00 SEK in damages. The court also confiscated his lighter.
2003: Burned.
2004: Burned.
2005: Burned by vandals dressed as Santa and the Gingerbread Man.
2009: Burned after the webcams were hacked and knocked offline by a DoS attack (yay hacktivists).
2011: Burned.
2012: Burned.
2013: Burned.

For years, I have been watching and waiting for the destruction of this glorious monument constructed of straw. Each year, we hold the Goat Incineration Sweepstakes where each participant chooses a day when the goat is to be destroyed. The prizes: a virtual trophy, pride and the ability to gloat for one entire calendar year. Some people go fucking apeshit for Christmas. Some lose their marbles for Chanukkah. I, on the other hand, freak the fuck out when julbock time arrives.

With the Goat Incineration Sweepstakes of 2014 underway, each morning I wake up and check the webcam. I also check it each evening before going to bed. For 28 days, the goat stands – mocking me, giving me the proverbial goat middle finger, suggesting that I suck its proverbial goat dong. I make notes of who has been ousted from the sweepstakes. I realize something awful has happened: we are all losers. The goat that should look like this:still looks like this:

What. The. Fuck!?!?!? This is entirely unacceptable. This is not how I want my winter to begin. This is not the Yuletide season I know and love. This is…this is…this is fucking goatshit! Action must be taken. I begin to wonder how many frequent flyer miles we have when reality settles in – my fucking passport expired so if anyone is going to do it, it’s going to have to be someone from Team Sverige.

I pull up the webcamera this morning and receive this message: Tack för ett fantastiskt år! Vi ses igen första advent 2015. Translated: Thanks for a fantastic year. See you again on First Advent, 2015. O rly? My hopes rise. Did someone burn the goat? Could 29 December 2014 be the day that lives in goat infamy? Immediately, I head over to t3h g00gl3z to search news. My heart is racing and hopeful. There is a slight smile on my face. No one from our sweepstakes would have won but that’s not the spirit of the exercise. The true meaning of the Yuletide season is scorched goat.

Article from Sweden’s government radio is the first to pop up. The news…unwelcome. Heresy, actually. The lede reads: Gävlebocken monteras ner – får nytt liv i Kina. Translated: Gävlebocken dismantled – given new life in China.

Holy shit. There are so many levels of wrong with this. First – it’s not even New Year’s and they dismantled the goat? Those of us hoping for destruction had three more days. Gävle cheated! It cheated us out of our inalienable right to set that bitch on fire. And sending it to China? To its twin city, Zhuhai, because 2015 is the year of the goat? Give me a fucking break. Oh no, Gävle, you’re not that nice of a kommun. You’re simply a scared, pissy little hamlet and you’re afraid that your precious julbock is going to be incinerated…as it should be.

I made a few modifications to the website today: a new theme (isn’t it just fabulous, darling?), some pop-culture Easter Eggs hidden here and there and a few other things that I’m (naturally) forgetting now as I write them down. I’ll likely either remember them when the bill arrives or forget and yell at Dock for buying some audio gear. Such is the way my mind functions (or doesn’t) these days.

The old design was that – old. And while I love what a pine cone represents in relation to a creative process, it was time for a change. I’m making a lot of changes these days (new tattoo, lop off a fuckton of hair) and thought RM needed a fresher outlook on life. Or maybe I’m simply projecting as I recover from Kang’s Dark Days of December.

Way, way back in time, when Random Misanthrope was started, I think I went full-bore and signed up for premium-this and uber-that. Welp, Milkface is in private school now. I drive VWs instead of SAABs, the standard vacation is no longer to Swedenland and Random Misanthrope is run on economy scale because this bitch needs more money in the old retirement fund (Wow…do I sound like the Queen of the First World Probz or what?). This is my loquacious way of saying :lowers head in shame: there may be ads. I know. I’m so very sorry.

Usually, I do most of my scribbling of the thoughts on my laptop which has that marvelous Adblock plug-in. I don’t see the nasty, little fuckers when I’m reading RM. One night, as I lay in my bed trolling the internet on the iPad, I noticed the most offensive thing on Random Misanthrope – ads! Dafuq? For years I crowed that I would never let commerce encroach upon our artistic paradise for we are esteemed and dignified people. We are writers and poets, for fuck’s sake! We shall not sully our work with pedestrian and unnecessary twaddle. But here they were – ads. Ads on Random Misanthrope. This is more offensive than a pledge pin on a uniform!

When I changed the site design, I looked into the cost of blocking ads from RM. $30 annually. Oh, WordPress. Oh, silly, silly WordPress. All that AdBlock asks of its users is a donation and you are trying to shake me down for $30 when most people are already running AdBlock? Yeah. NO.

To those visiting us (all two, three, four of you) via tablets or mobile phones, please accept my most humble apologies for the ads and my unwillingness to pony up $30 per year. As it turns out, my integrity is much cheaper than I had initially thought.